


When you look at me like that, my darling (what did you expect?)

by MovesLikeBucky



Series: Ineffable Tutors [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dowling years: Tutors edition, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, The inherent eroticism of beards also lets be real here, contains NSFW art, the inherent eroticism of sock garters and shirt stays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26324662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: “Aziraphale, you in here?”  He knocks and then pushes the door open, finds a cozy slice of paradise behind it.  A soft, fluffy sofa.  Bookshelves that are much more organized than downstairs.  A tiny kitchen, off to the side, with just enough space for one, and a bay window looking out over the city.  Lastly, through a door to his left, a bedroom with an attached ensuite.  His eyes drag past the soft looking tartan blanket, past the armoire no doubt holding clothes a few centuries old, and finally to the bathroom, where the door stands open, and Aziraphale stands at the sink, rubbing his face.The sight makes Crowley stop in his tracks, eyes locking with Aziraphale’s in the ornate mirror.  Aziraphale’s hair is wild and out of place; longer than Crowley has ever seen it.  Tantalizing pale curls just begging for Crowley’s hands.  He’s grown a beard, too.  It looks like sheep’s wool, like it would be soft and pillowy if he sank his fingers into it.Fuck’s sake, six thousand bloody years and it still barely takes a change in hairstyle for Crowley to fall in love all over again.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Tutors [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912819
Comments: 82
Kudos: 373
Collections: Apple-bottom Jorts





	When you look at me like that, my darling (what did you expect?)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends we're back at it at the Krispy Kreme! xD
> 
> Anyway, more tutors content because apparently I'm weak for beards and tweed. Who knew?! (I did... I knew >_>)
> 
> Still based most lovingly on Naniiebim's designs for the tutors, this time with some lovely LOVELY art by [nothistoryart](https://twitter.com/nothistoryart/status/1302669883000397826?s=20) ([doorwaytoparadise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise) here on ao3), because the feedback loop of fandom is a truly lovely thing.
> 
> Big BIG thanks to [RainingPrince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainingPrince/pseuds/RainingPrince) for the beta read <3 <3 
> 
> Title today is taken from 505 by Arctic Monkeys <3

Crowley checks his reflection in the rear-view as he pulls into his (miraculously) empty parking spot in front of the shop. It’s time to change tactics, now that Warlock is older. There’s no more need for a nanny now that the boy is old enough to entertain himself. For Aziraphale’s part, he’s just tired of the rosebush thorns. 

They’d decided on tutors, to help shape the boy’s worldview. Crowley can teach him the wrongs and Aziraphale can teach him the rights from the wrongs so that Crowley can circle him back around to the wrongs again. Works just fine for politicians, should be good for an eight year old as well. 

But this begets more closeness than their former disguises had; in theory, they’re actively working together to see to the boy’s education. They have to be on the same page at all times now, not just when it’s convenient for them. Though Crowley doubts there could ever be an inconvenient time to be on the same page as Aziraphale. 

If only his fool’s heart could let it be for five seconds.

The end is nigh, just a few years now, unless they do their jobs properly. Unless their influences match. And if they don’t, they’ll be on two separate sides of a battlefield that was once Earth, upon the skeletons that were once Humanity. Aziraphale will hold his flaming sword to Crowley’s throat and be his doom. (Aziraphale is, of course, the only one allowed…when the time comes. He wouldn’t give his life to any of the others, but he’d give it gladly to his angel.)

No time for those thoughts. He straightens his jacket, scratches at his chin. It’s been a while since he’s had facial hair, and it was never quite this full and dark. It’ll take some getting used to, but he has to differentiate himself from Ashtoreth as best he can.

The bell jingles happily as Crowley enters the shop. The shop is closed, but the door is always unlocked for him. He’s always been welcome here, and he tries not to examine that too closely.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley calls out into the empty space of the shop. It’s dark in the fading twilight, darker than usual. No oil lamps or candles burning in the backroom where Aziraphale would usually be. Aziraphale is definitely here, that magnetic pull that’s been dragging him in since he first slithered up the wall in Eden is just as strong as ever. 

He takes the spiral stairs two at a time, making his way up to the darkened first floor. There’s the pinprick of light from under the door that, ostensibly, leads to the built-in flat (though Crowley is certain it leads to more book storage). 

“Aziraphale, you in here?” He knocks and then pushes the door open, finds a cozy slice of paradise behind it. A soft, fluffy sofa. Bookshelves that are much more organized than downstairs. A tiny kitchen, off to the side, with just enough space for one, and a bay window looking out over the city. Lastly, through a door to his left, a bedroom with an attached ensuite. His eyes drag past the soft looking tartan blanket, past the armoire no doubt holding clothes a few centuries old, and finally to the bathroom, where the door stands open, and Aziraphale stands at the sink, rubbing his face.

The sight makes Crowley stop in his tracks, eyes locking with Aziraphale’s in the ornate mirror. Aziraphale’s hair is wild and out of place; longer than Crowley has ever seen it. Tantalizing pale curls just begging for Crowley’s hands. He’s grown a beard, too. It looks like sheep’s wool, like it would be soft and pillowy if he sank his fingers into it.

Fuck’s sake, six thousand bloody years and it still barely takes a change in hairstyle for Crowley to fall in love all over again.

“Well?” Aziraphale asks. It’s expectant, but what is expected is lost on Crowley entirely at the vision before him. 

The soft, plush thighs on display. The tantalizing tease of the curve of Aziraphale’s uncovered arse under the hem of the shirt. The way he’s gripping the marble countertop as the water runs into the sink. Fuck’s sake even the tartan socks and sock garters. He’s even got bloody _shirt-stays_ hooked around his thighs. People don’t even _use_ those anymore, why does seeing Aziraphale in them drive him crazy?

“Well?” Crowley answers, swallowing thickly, thankful for his sunglasses that hide his eyes and how they wander. He catches Aziraphale’s eyes flick lower in the mirror, suddenly aware of the pressure between his legs and the erection straining against his trousers. Can’t hide that behind dark lenses. 

Aziraphale’s eyes trail back up slowly, stormy gray locking back with his own. There’s a hunger in them, a want and desire. Crowley realizes with a sudden clarity that given half the chance Aziraphale would eat him alive.

Crowley, for what it’s worth, would be happy to be the prey.

“Well? Why are you here?” Aziraphale asks. Not coldly, just matter of fact. He asks like it’s any other day, like he isn’t standing there looking like he’s walked out of half of Crowley’s fantasies and for one fleeting moment Crowley forgets why he was here in the first place.

“I…um…lesson plans! Right, lesson plans, thought we’d compare notes.”

Aziraphale keeps his eyes locked on Crowley’s as he rinses the soap out of his beard. His fluffy, downy, extremely _soft_ looking beard.

Lord, Crowley is fucked.

“I see,” Aziraphale says as he takes the hand towel off the hook and dries his face, “And, did you still want to talk ‘lesson plans’, or is there some other activity you might find more... stimulating?” Aziraphale’s eyes rake over him again and Crowley has never felt more exposed. 

Everything in him is screaming to run. Run away, create some distance, preserve their safety. To keep away, and keep him safe. He should turn, leave the room, go back to his flat and fuck his fist instead of standing here and staring and wanting and _needing_ like the pathetic demon that he is. 

But there’s so little time left. Only three years now. It’s nothing, it’s less than a flash in the pan. It’s no time at all compared to six thousand years. And Aziraphale is here and he’s staring at him like that and he _knows_ . He knows that Aziraphale knows; and Aziraphale has to know that he does, too. Has to know. Crowley can’t let everything end without Aziraphale knowing for sure, without telling him, without _showing_ him.

Crowley should run away. 

Crowley takes a step forward instead.

“Is that for your disguise?” He asks, staring at Aziraphale’s reflection. Watching Aziraphale watch him move closer, circle in like a planet drawn to the sun. 

“Yes, actually. I thought the facial hair might distinguish me better from Francis. I can see you’ve had similar ideas.” Aziraphale’s voice has a higher pitch to it. Unsure, afraid. He’s heard this voice before.

_I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing._

_He’s not my friend, we’ve never met before. We don’t know each other._

_I can’t disod… dis… not do what I’m told, m’ an angel._

_I mean, if he comes into his full power? How do we stop him?_

This thing both of them have danced around for so long, this want and this need, is staring Crowley right in the face. Reflected in the mirror, and reflected unfamiliarly in familiar grey eyes and it’s all he can do to not run across the room and kiss this beautiful angel senseless. But he doesn’t, he just takes another step forward as his glasses clatter to the ground, abandoned and forgotten.

“Yeah, seems so. Looks good on you, angel.” Another step.

“Oh, thank you, I thought it might be rather fetching.” Aziraphale says this with an honest to Satan _wiggle_ and Crowley wonders yet again when he ended up so fucking gone on this stuffy angel who’s always been completely out of place no matter what century he’s in but has a permanent place in Crowley’s blackened heart anyway.

He takes another step, directly behind Aziraphale now. It would be nothing to reach out, to run a hand over those broad shoulders, to lean into him and smell the scent on his shirt, to memorize the notes in his cologne. To keep these things with him for whatever time they have left, to remember later when he’s alone and dreaming.

“Crowley…” His name is a whisper on Aziraphale’s breath, he can see Aziraphale’s white knuckle grip on the marble counter, can see the blush dusting his cheeks even under that beautiful thatch of platinum curls. Aziraphale swallows heavily and continues, never breaking the eye contact in the reflection, “Crowley, I think I’m… well, that is to say…”

Crowley is close enough now to whisper in his ear. Close enough to smell the book dust and bergamot on him. He leans in, ghosts the tip of his nose along Aziraphale’s earlobe, watches the angel’s eyes flutter closed in the mirror. “What do you want, angel?” He whispers against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, delighting in the full-body shiver it leads to, “I’ll give you anything, everything, all you have to do is ask me. Surely you know that, you have to know by now.” 

With every word Aziraphale’s breathing gets heavier, a whine catching in the back of his throat that Crowley will play back again, and again, and again until the sun burns out if he’s able. Aziraphale turns to face him, and they are so very, very close. He can feel Aziraphale’s breath on his lips, mere inches to what he’s always wanted for so long. But he can’t move, not unless Aziraphale tells him to.

“Crowley, _my_ Crowley.” Aziraphale says his name like a plea, like a promise, like a blasphemy all in one as he reaches out and strokes a gentle thumb along Crowley’s cheekbone. “My dear, I am so very tired of waiting, aren’t you?”

That is all it takes. A spark, a fire starter, a switch flipped. Crowley’s hands are on Aziraphale’s face as he crowds him back against the sink, covering Aziraphale’s lips with his own and finally, _finally_ , tasting his angel’s kiss. Aziraphale kisses him back ferociously, like he’s trying to pour six millennia of want into it and make that want palpable. Aziraphale’s beard rubs against Crowley’s face. It’s soft, if a tiny bit scratchy. Crowley finds he was right; it does feel like sheep’s wool, fluffy and thick under his hands. He has a fleeting thought at how fitting this is for Aziraphale, for this angel so soft and fluffy in his own right. He scratches his fingernails through it while Aziraphale moans into his mouth, relishing the newfound ability to do so.

Crowley finds his jacket unbuttoned, pushed off his shoulders and onto the floor. Surprisingly nimble bookbinder’s hands make quick work of the buttons on his shirt. Aziraphale’s lips never leave his, Aziraphale’s tongue never leaves his mouth. It’s like he’s exploring, mapping the lines of Crowley’s teeth to his memory. It’s like Aziraphale is trying to devour him, drink him down like water, consume him completely. 

“Why won’t it budge,” Aziraphale growls against Crowley’s lips as he tries to pull Crowley’s shirt tails out of his too-tight trousers. “You and your maddening choices in fashion.”

“Says the one with the sock garters.” Crowley’s lips trail to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, kissing him there and kissing his cheek covered in fluff, too. He’s waited too long, there’s still so much skin to explore, so much his lips want to touch.

“Says the one with the sleeve garters,” Aziraphale says as he pulls on the elastic and then releases it, making it snap back against Crowley’s arm.

“ _Ow!_ ” Crowley tries to glower at him, but he can’t quite manage, not when Aziraphale’s hair is a mess and his lips are kissed-red and he looks so thoroughly and incandescently _happy_. All Crowley can do is kiss him again and nuzzle his nose into Aziraphale’s chin.

“At least I don’t need a miracle to get into my — _ah,_ that _tickles!_ ” Aziraphale gasps as Crowley runs his forked tongue over the angel’s pulse point, committing the rhythm to memory; letting his heartbeat sync and keep time as he hovers there, drunk on the taste of Aziraphale’s sweat. Aziraphale manages to get Crowley’s belt undone, tossing it to some far flung and unknown corner of the room before working at Crowley’s fly. “Into my trousers, as I was saying.”

“Don’t need to get into your trousers, angel,” Crowley growls against Aziraphale’s skin as he pushes him back, pressing their bodies closer together, slotting a leg between Aziraphale’s thighs and finding him hard and wanting, “you aren’t wearing them, anyway.” 

He rolls his hips, grinding against Aziraphale, his thigh sliding against the angel’s erection. Crowley tries not to examine too closely the fact that Aziraphale had foregone his underwear with the shirt stays. Tries not to think that maybe Aziraphale wanted this, too. That he had hoped for it when Crowley came over tonight.

The moans that escape the angel’s mouth sound like music to Crowley’s ears; better than any composer or ridiculous celestial harmony. Crowley grinds into him again wanting to hear more. He captures the sound of them off of Aziraphale’s lips with his mouth, takes them down inside of them where he can replay them over and over.

“I might not be but _you_ —” Aziraphale practically snarls at him as he gets the fly undone and pushes Crowley’s trousers and pants to the ground as he starts to laugh, “—are entirely overdressed.”

Crowley just smirks at him and grinds against him once more, gasping at the feeling of Aziraphale’s thick cock rubbing against his. “Christ alive, angel,” Crowley says as he starts wrenching open the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt, nipping and tonguing at the skin he uncovers, relishing the sandpapery feel of the chest hair against his lips. “Need you, can I?”

“I’ve got some… well… sundry goods, we’ll say, in the medicine cabinet—“

 _Sundry goods, bloody featherbrain._ Crowley kisses him deeply as he reaches for the cabinet, throwing the door open and fumbling blindly for anything that feels like a bottle of lube. He gives up, breaking the kiss so he can actually look. It’s a tactical error, as Aziraphale’s lips and that soft and fluffy beard are now making their way down the line of his neck, nipping at his collarbone, making him weak in the knees.

It takes a minor miracle for him to find the lube, already flushed red and dripping as he is. Aziraphale isn’t faring much better, and Crowley can feel where their precome is mingling as they rut against each other, animalistic and needy. The proximity alone threatens to get him off before he can see to anything else.

“How do you want to—“

“Turn around, angel—“

Crowley kisses him deeply once more before Aziraphale turns back towards the sink. He clicks open the bottle, slicking his aching length before pushing his cock between the angel’s plush thighs, hissing at the friction of it.

They lock eyes in the mirror once again; Aziraphale’s dark ones meeting Crowley’s bright yellow. There’s too much to look at; there’s a flush running down Aziraphale’s neck, his hair is wild and disheveled, the blissful expression as he squeezes his thighs together, giving Crowley something to rut into.

“Fuck’s sake, angel,” Crowley says as he grips Aziraphale’s lovely plump hips tightly, drags his nose through the soft curls at the nape of the angel’s neck, “do you know how many times I’ve gotten off, just to the thought of these thighs of yours?”

Aziraphale gasps as Crowley pulls back and snaps his hips, slick cock sliding against Aziraphale’s soft thighs and most sensitive areas. Aziraphale leans his head back to nuzzle against Crowley’s cheek, practically whining with need, “I don’t… tell me…”

Crowley’s movement stutters as he feels heat rising in his cheeks, whining as he touches his forehead to Aziraphale’s spine. Whatever he’d been prepared for it hadn’t been that. He looks up and sees Aziraphale’s bastard grin plastered on his face and his resolve strengthens.

“Ever since Rome, those bath houses,” Crowley growls low, taking Aziraphale’s earlobe between his teeth and his cock in his still-slick hand. He swipes his thumb across the tip, drags his touch slowly and languidly, relishing the weight of it in his hand. “Watching you walk around, watching them rub together, with your gold-flecked stretch marks. So soft and inviting and so beautifully _perfect._ Lost count around Wessex.”

“That long, my darling?” Aziraphale asks on shaky breaths. Crowley watches his eyes close in the mirror, watches him enjoying himself and watches himself enjoying Aziraphale. _Darling._ He works Aziraphale’s length at a slow pace, noting every twitch, finding where he’s the most sensitive. Figuring out which motions make him grip that marble sink hard enough to break. Crowley keeps thrusting between Aziraphale’s legs, smooth skin of his thighs and harsh elastic of the shirt stays working against each other. He can’t bring himself to care, not when he has Aziraphale bent over like this. Not when he can bring his other hand up to Aziraphale’s face, feel the kiss placed to his palm before he rakes his nails through Aziraphale’s beard, trailing down until the scratch becomes a soft caress across Aziraphale’s throat where he has his head thrown back.

“That long, angel.” His response is whispered on held breath as he fucks himself on Aziraphale’s thighs, as he feels the angel’s hips jerk up into his hand, looking for friction. He sucks a bruise into the back of Aziraphale’s neck, hoping he’ll keep it there and hide it under his suit collar. That he’ll want to feel this evidence of them, together, for at least part of the time they have left.

He wants to ask, wants to know if Aziraphale has thought of him this way. If he’s been the subject of dirty and debauched fantasies of a hedonist angel; of the best angel She ever created, the most human of them. But he won’t ask, he’s too scared of the answer.

“I’ve thought of you too,” Aziraphale says, saving him the question and making his cold and withered heart soar, “Sometimes here, sometimes over there—“ he gestures through the door to the bed, “—sometimes, downstairs… on the Chesterfield, when the need takes me.”

“Fucking _Hell_ , angel, I’m not gonna last.” The image is too much, Aziraphale laid out on that couch. Aziraphale laid out on the couch — where Crowley has slept, has drank, has made himself at home since the bookshop first opened, carved himself a small niche in this corner of his angel’s world — with his cock in his hand, or three fingers deep, or whatever his whims he might have led to. Crowley’s mind is racing to know.

Aziraphale inhales sharply, “Go on then, love, I want to see you. I won’t be far behind, I want to see you lose yourself. There’ll be time for more later.”

And oh what a thought that is. More nights with wine and music and company, more time to be in Aziraphale’s arms. More time to kiss him, to love him, and to fuck him like he deserves. It’s all the encouragement he needs. One last thrust between those damnable thighs has him spilling out onto the carpet, biting down on Aziraphale’s shoulder while crying his name through gritted teeth.

Three more strokes and Aziraphale follows, shouts of ‘darling’, ‘dearest’, and ‘Crowley' ringing into the rafters like this bathroom is a concert hall and Crowley is the audience. His name in that voice, with that much bliss and love and lust behind it nearly brings tears to his eyes. He slumps against Aziraphale’s back, sated and over-sensitive, hand still wrapped around Aziraphale’s softening cock, relishing the feel of the angel’s come on his skin.

Crowley plants kisses where he can reach: to the bruise forming on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, to where he bit through the angel’s shirt, into his soft fluffy hair and down the line of his spine. Soft and gentle kisses, here in the afterglow and the comedown. 

Aziraphale reaches a shaky hand for the towel on the ring, the same one he’d used on his face just a little while ago. He runs it under the water for a bit before wringing it out and turning to Crowley, taking him by the wrist and leading him to the bed, beckoning him to lie down. Aziraphale cleans him up the human way, which is so ridiculous that Crowley takes the towel from him with a sneer and drags him down onto the bed with him. He returns the favor with soft touches of the washcloth, cleaning both of their spends off of Aziraphale while he just sits there and smiles.

He tosses the towel to the side (it finds its way to the hook suddenly, and is quite surprised at this turn of events) and snuggles in close to Aziraphale’s chest. Still half dressed, the both of them, but neither really able to bring themselves to care.

Aziraphale lazily scratches his nails through Crowley’s beard, and Crowley decidedly does _not_ purr. “You had wanted to talk about the lesson plans?”

“Nope.” Crowley says defiantly, tangling his legs with Aziraphale’s and draping an arm across his chest. “That’s a problem for tomorrow.”

“I daresay, it might be a problem for a few days from now.”

“Why?”

Aziraphale kisses his temple, nuzzles his nose there, the fluff of his beard tickling Crowley’s face and Christsake Crowley has never been more in love. “I have a… vague suspicion, my dear, that we won’t be leaving this bed at all tomorrow.”

Crowley lets out a string of unintelligible noises as he wraps around Aziraphale tighter, ever the snake that he is.

“I’ll take that as a yes, for now, but I’ll double check in the morning.” Aziraphale kisses his forehead and snuggles his way down into the blankets, manifesting a book from some dark corner of the shop and snapping to turn the bedside lamp on. “Goodnight darling,” it’s carried on a whisper, and Crowley barely hears him as he drifts into slumber, “may you dream of whatever you like best.”

And dream he does. He dreams of a cottage, of matching towels in the bathroom. Of piles of laundry (not done), of dishes in a sink (halfway done), a garden full of vegetables and a library room full of books. He dreams of a home, dreams of a better time for them both.

He dreams, against all odds, that their plan works. He dreams of a place for them, on their own side at last.


End file.
